


Ketchup&Mustard

by lanskyed



Category: Mad Men
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:30:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanskyed/pseuds/lanskyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three semi-connected and relatively quick little pieces about Ginsberg & Stan, the ad men who go together like ketchup & mustard. They were all based on prompts given by other people, which I have put at the top of each one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ketchup&Mustard

**I Recommend Vodka**

"I have this problem."

Stan sighs. Whenever Ginsberg starts a sentence that way, something bad's bound to follow. It's the equivalent of starting a sentence with "No offense, but…" or "You can't tell anyone, but…" It never turns out well. The problem is that no matter how many times Ginsberg starts one of those dangerous sentences, Stan's always curious to see how it'll turn out. It's a curse. "What's the problem?"

"No matter what I do, I just can't…" Ginsberg gestures at his typewriter, frustration all over his face. Waves of frustration are practically emanating from him. Even his mustache looks frustrated. "I can't come up with the right way to phrase this. I keep getting so close, and then I… I… Just can't finish it."

"So it's like the failed orgasm of the advertising world?"

Ginsberg just stares at him. Then he shakes his head, very slowly, really expressing his disappointment. "If you want to be crass about it, sure." He goes back to typing.

As far as Stan can tell, he's just hitting random keys on the typewriter at this point. "I do want to be crass about it. I could be more crass. Just try me."

Ginsberg continues to stare. The staring seems to last for an inordinate amount of time. His eyes narrow slightly, like he's concentrating on Stan's face really hard, like he's trying to memorize every feature on his face. Maybe he's just trying to come up with something incisive to say. Finally, he opens his mouth, gapes like a goldfish for a moment, then speaks. "Are you going to help, or are you going to continue to be a big old pain in the ass?"

"I was thinking about continuing to be a pain in the ass," Stan says, getting up from the table and sauntering towards the break room to make himself a fresh cup of coffee. "But I have a suggestion for you, as far as the whole inspiration thing goes."

"What?" Ginsberg asks, tone overly suspicious.

"When all else fails…" Stan turns around, leaning against the door frame, drawing out the sentence for far too long before finishing it. "… I recommend vodka."

***

** Adventures In Shopping **

 

"This one. Yeah, this is the one, this'll really highlight your, uh…" Stan presses something pink into Ginsberg's hands, and it takes him a second to realize that it's a silk shirt, pink with little yellow polka dots.

"Highlight my what?" He's suspicious, but then, he needs all the help he can get. Stan's assured him that he can teach Ginsberg to dress for success -- and success, here, means getting a date -- and since Stan seems completely capable of getting dates, the plan seems like a sound one.

"Your mustache. I don't know. Chicks dig a guy in bright colors, you know?"

Ginsberg clutches the shirt in his hands, weighing his options. It's expensive, but Stan thinks it'll look good. Stan had liked his plaid jacket, too, and anyone who liked that was okay in his book. "Okay," he finally says, "I'll go try it on."

Stan's attention is elsewhere; he's eyeing a girl across the store who's eyeing him back, obviously admiring his leather jacket with the fringe all over it. That jacket is baffling to Ginsberg -- he gets that people like it, but he doesn't quite understand why. It, like much fashion, is utterly inaccessible to him, but he sees that, based on the reaction Stan gets, there must be something good about it. This makes him trust Stan. Clearly, his understanding of fashion is far more complex than Ginsberg's will ever be.

"Stan?" he tries again.

Stan stops making ridiculous faces at the girl across the store. "Ginzo," he says, nodding determinedly, "You're going to need a whole outfit. That shirt is a thing of beauty, and it deserves to be surrounded by other beautiful things. I know how that shirt feels." He grabs a mustard colored sweater and holds it aloft like a trophy. "This, he says, "This brings it all together."

"Outfits usually involve pants, right? I mean, I don't know much about fashion, but I know that Don's a fashionable guy, and he always wears pants." Ginsberg's pretty sure he has a point here.

"Sure, you need pants. How about…" Stan rummages through the rack for awhile, glances vaguely at the tag on one pair, and holds them out. They're brown corduroys, generally inoffensive, and truthfully, Ginsberg had almost expected something more flashy.

"Okay," he says, "I'll go try these on, and then…"

"These'll fit just fine. You don't always need to try things on. That's why they make standardized sizes. Don't worry about it. You're, what, kind of short and kind of skinny? Those'll work."

Ginsberg's still skeptical, but Stan's the expert here, and he tends to wear things that fit. He buys the clothes, they part ways, and at home that night, he tries on his new outfit in the mirror. He truly looks, he thinks, like paint can of pink, yellow, and brown had exploded all over him. The pants are too big, the cardigan hangs loosely, and the silk of the shirt is already wrinkled.

Stan was right: the outfit definitely highlights his mustache. Eyeing himself up and down, he admires his appearance -- it's not quite as good as the plaid jacket, but he looks good. Confident. And chicks dig confidence, right? He's still not sure he understands fashion, or why it's desirable to wear things that're a little too big and a little too bright, but Stan's the one who knows about this stuff, and Stan had spoken in favor of these clothes. In this outfit, nobody will be able to resist taking him seriously.

***

**Beard vs. Mustache**

Ginsberg's never kissed a guy with a beard and right now he's kind of wondering why he hadn't remedied that sooner. Sure, he hasn't kissed a big variety of people, and the majority of them have been girls, which would implicitly rule out the whole beard thing -- not that he's judging; if there's a woman out there with a beard and she wants to kiss him, she can absolutely give it a shot. In any case, he's remedying it now, and he couldn't be happier about it.

Admittedly, it's kind of weird, because it's Stan, and Stan's his coworker, and for all the bizarre thoughts he's had about his coworkers, he can't say he's ever spent a whole lot of time thinking about kissing Stan (although there was that one time he'd had a completely questionable dream about him that had resulted in him waking up tangled in his sheets and feeling vaguely ashamed of himself.)

And there isn't a whole lot of logical thought going on right now anyway because they're too busy doing this whole kissing thing which should probably be more awkward than it is, but it just seems to fit, and wow, this is going on for a long time, and sooner or later one of them's going to break away and say…

"You know, I've never kissed anyone with a mustache."

Well, that wasn't necessarily what he was expecting to hear. A denial, maybe. One of those "That never should have happened and we're never talking about it again" kind of things. He's used to those. But Stan's always been good at taking him by surprise, and this is no exception. "So what's the verdict?" he asks, because that's the logical question to ask, right? Maybe he can just ignore the fact that they're still kind of embracing each other, and have a conversation. Maybe.

"I don't know," Stan says, very seriously, drawing out the unsure statement like it's filled with deep and meaningful symbolism. "What's the verdict on kissing a guy with a beard?" Apparently, he's decided that turnabout's fair play.

"It's kind of distracting," Ginsberg admits. "I mean, there's just so much going on. There's your mouth, and your tongue, and then there's this big… fuzzy… thing. It kind of overtakes everything else. It's a very specific sensation. Very noticeable."

"What, like you don't have to deal with that when there's a mustache in the way? I got your mustache hairs in my mouth, Ginzo. I'm not sure you're aware of just how weird that is."

"So you're saying that kissing a bearded guy's superior somehow? Because from the argument you're making, there's just more potential for hair getting into my mouth. And yet, remarkably, I didn't get hair in my mouth from kissing you, because I wasn't licking your beard."

"You think I was licking your mustache?"

"I think that's the only possible explanation."

They stare at each other defiantly and silently for a moment -- somewhat cross-eyed, as necessitated by their close proximity. Ginsberg has the vague sense that this might be a completely ridiculous argument, but he's invested in it now. No way can kissing a guy with a beard be better than kissing a guy with a mustache.

"Well, I wasn't," Stan says defiantly. "Your mustache just encroached on my mouth. It takes up a lot of space, you know. You really should trim it."

"I'll trim it when you shave that porcupine off your face," Ginsberg replies, finally realizing that his arms seem to have twined their way around Stan's waist completely without his knowledge, and letting go somewhat reluctantly.

"Well, I'm never going to do that. In fact, I'm going to grow it longer."

"Then I'm going to grow my mustache longer, too."

Again, the defiant, silent stare.

"Fine."

"Fine."

"I didn't want to kiss you, anyway."

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

"Keep telling yourself you don't soothe yourself to sleep at night thinking about bearded men. Keep telling yourself that my facial hair isn't superior in all ways. Keep telling yourself that…"

The last sentence is left unheard, perhaps for the best, as Ginsberg slams the door to the office behind him. It's ridiculous, really. Completely absurd. How could anyone claim that beards are superior to mustaches? There's only one way to solve this argument, he decides, as he presses the button for the elevator repeatedly: they're going to have to try this all again. For the sake of thorough experimentation. Then they'll see whose facial hair reigns supreme. Then Stan won't be so smug.


End file.
